


Compulsion to Move

by elklights



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Chess, Chess Metaphors, Family Bonding, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Happy Ending, Parent Aragorn, Parent Elrond, Post-Lord of the Rings, Strategy & Tactics, Teitho Fanfiction Contest, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:55:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27151438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elklights/pseuds/elklights
Summary: Aragorn tightens his furs around him and brings up a knee to rest his chin on. Blades of grass bow and flatten beneath him when he shifts, and dew pools, drop by drop, in the echo of his footprint.“Do you feel as if we are being forced to move?” he asks..Aragorn often loses at chess. War and fatherhood teach him to win (and offer some unexpected insights along the way).1st place in August/September 2020 Teitho Challenge 'On the brink'.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Eldarion, Aragorn | Estel & Elladan, Aragorn | Estel & Elrond Peredhel
Kudos: 19





	Compulsion to Move

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the August/September 2020 Teitho Challenge 'On the brink', where it placed first. My thanks to those who read and voted, as well as the Teitho staff for their hard work!  
> ~Elk

"Your move," says Elrond, steepling his fingers and leaning back into his chair. White sunlight sprays from his shoulders and pools at his feet, flashing off ankles chained by looping gold and precious stones and delicate, eight-pointed stars. The grass is damp with softening frost. His bare feet leave no impression where they rest.

Aragorn extracts an arm from his furs to lift a white knight from the board. He hovers the piece, glances to his opponent, and wins only a raised eyebrow and an indulgent smile for the trouble. He huffs, unsurprised, and takes the opportunity to niftily capture Elrond's last black rook. Three moves later, his knight joins the line of white pieces held hostage on his foster father's side of the board. Aragorn drops his smirk for a scowl.

"Your move," says Elrond, steepling his fingers and leaning back into his chair.

They have been playing since daybreak, but the sun hangs upon its zenith now, and the Cloud Pavilion is bright, if chilled. The Cloud Pavilion is always chilled, because though Elrond suspends the valley in timeless spring, two of the Bruinen's tributaries weave beneath the flagstones and over the edge of the outcrop, so the air is always misted with water falling skywards. Elrond always sits on the far side of the table; just beyond him, the world drops away into a high, pale sky. On days like this, when the breeze is fresh and condensed mist drips from the rafters, the bottom of the falls are clouded raw-wool thick, and the valley floor is obscured from mortal eyes. There are, of course, no railings.

When Aragorn was young, the mist would freeze through bitter winters and grow from spindled columns. If he balanced on the table and stretched just right, he could snap icicles from the ceiling and lick them as Elrond taught him strategy until his fingers reddened and his tongue burned and his whole face went numb.

Now, the Bruinen flows year-round. Elrond has taught Aragorn strategy since he turned twelve, so Aragorn knows of the defensive weaknesses of frozen rivers and the defensive capabilities of magic rings. He does not, however, know where to place his pawn. Seventy years of intermittent instruction from the finest strategist of the Age can apparently only accomplish so much.

Elrond clears his throat faintly, and Aragorn extracts an arm and pokes forward a piece, trying to make the movement seem less half-hearted that it is. Elrond's smile twitches minutely, so Aragorn knows he has failed. He rarely wins games of strategy against his foster father.

"Was there something you wished to discuss?" asks Elrond, leaning forward to examine the board. Droplets of spray crown his temples and string pearls upon his eyelashes. He shakes out his heavy sleeves as he places his piece, and droplets fall as stars from a burnt orange sky.

Aragorn tightens his furs around him and brings up a knee to rest his chin on. Blades of grass bow and flatten beneath him when he shifts, and dew pools, drop by drop, in the echo of his footprint.

"Do you feel as if we are being forced to move?" he asks, after a length.

Elrond closes his eyes and smiles faintly. "We are always being forced to move," he says. "Your turn."

Aragon studies the board, decides he's as good as lost already, and reluctantly extracts an arm from his furs to flick a pawn forward. "I didn't mean the game," he says.

"I know," says Elrond, opening his eyes to examine the board again. Pale mist clings to dark eyelashes, quivering when he blinks, never falling but always close. He does not elaborate.

"Sauron has forced our hand, and he knows it," prompts Aragorn, when the silence begins to linger. The words push past his lips and hang like droplets in still air. He finds he does not care much to stop them. "The One can no longer remain hidden; the Fellowship leaves in three nights, but even now the Enemy searches, waits, barely one step behind. The only option left is to destroy the One, but attempting to do so may destroy all Arda. How can we hold responsibility for that?"

Elrond captures Aragorn's last rook and lines it up neatly on his side of the board. There are very few pieces remaining in play.

"How can we not?" he asks evenly, looking up to meet Aragorn's gaze. His eyes are aged with memory, as deep and pale as fine mist, and just as easy to get lost in. Aragorn looks down to his lap.

"Estel," says Elrond, voice gentle, "how long have such thoughts been on your mind?"

Aragorn moves a piece (mostly at random), and fiddles with his cuffs. They are stiff with silvered embroidery and damp with silvered water, heavier and more ornate than any Dúnedain tunic. There is a loose thread on the left sleeve that winds twice around his thumb.

He has sworn to aid the Ringbearer in destroying the One, whatever the personal cost. He is an educated man, familiar with political and military strategy, so he knows he will lose his life to this War; his only feasible outcomes are death or kingship. Both sit hollowly in his stomach, rattle around amongst sun-worn memories; of sticky fingers passing honey cakes under the table, fire-lit nights under falling stars, twigs in dark hair, watered ale, and Arwen's moonlit eyes. He does not reply.

Elrond hums and taps a finger against the tabletop, and Vilya churns with liquid light upon his right hand. The air pressure is always slightly strange around Vilya, distorted and lightning-sparked with the promise of a storm. When Aragorn was young, he used to get breathless if he spent too long in its proximity. By now, he is used to the ever-present smell of ozone, the ever-present weight of his foster father's responsibility.

"You already know it was Maedhros who taught me strategy," says Elrond, when the silence between them stretches paper-thin. "I began my lessons younger than you, because the war was moving our way, and because the Fëanorians had no other heirs." He smiles with a twinge of something just beyond Aragorn's comprehension. "Maedhros also grew to care for us, I think," he adds, and the 'us' drifts through the pavilion, tumbles with the water over the edge of the outcrop. Elrond rarely mentions Elros by name. Mortality is a contentious topic in the Peredhel household.

"There is a term, in Quenya, for what you describe," continues Elrond, after a beat. " _Levë mau_ _Þ_ _tallo,_ movement out of compulsion." His accent, Aragorn knows, is another remnant of Maedhros: a declaration of Elrond's childhood allegiance, a time-weathered artifact from a buried Age. Andúril's pommel soaks in white sunlight where it rests on the table next to Aragorn: a declaration of his future allegiances, a reforged artifact from a buried Age. Aragorn breathes deeply, and displacement echoes in the hollow spaces between his ribs. He tightens his furs around his shoulders.

Vilya parts light and mist as Elrond waves a hand over the board. "In this game, you are forced to take your turn," he says, "even if it should put you in a disadvantageous position. I used to hate playing against Maedhros, because always I would have to take my turn, and always I would lose."

He smiles and leans back. "Sometimes all we can do is take our turn."

Aragorn eyes him from beneath his furs. "That's it?" he asks, and his tone comes out sulky and childish. "I thought elvish stories were supposed to have cryptic morals."

His foster father's laughter curls between mist and columns. "I apologise for the disappointment," he says, then gestures to the board. "It is your turn."

Four moves later see a sigh and a checkmated King. "I surrender," mumbles Aragorn, buried into the depths of his furs.

* * *

Elladan corners him in the command tent not three hours after they have set up camp.

"What is this I hear about petty theft?" he asks, in a loving tone that stirs up some of Aragorn's more violent sibling tendencies. "King of Gondor not half a day, and already resorting to cheap trickeries? Ai! What _would_ Adar say?"

Aragorn deigns such accusations unworthy of verbal acknowledgement, but does briefly look up from his parchment to gesture rudely over his shoulder. Sounds of mild outrage return from Elladan's general direction.

"Not just a thief, but an ill-tempered one!" his brother exclaims, dropping the tent flap and coming to peer over Aragorn's shoulder. Aragorn shifts slightly to give him a better view of the map, and Elladan leans across him to place a plate by his elbow. The torches smear burnt orange across the high points of his cheekbones; his gauntlets are crusted with tar-thick mud. His circlet is bright, his hair tangled, his fingernails immaculately clean. Reality bends in strange limbo, during war. The Battle of Pelennor Fields seems a second and an Age ago.

Elladan is well versed in military strategy; he takes one look at the map before them and undrapes himself from Aragorn's back to appropriate the nearest stool. "That explains why you stole the board, at least," he says, dragging the plate closer towards him and tearing bread into hunks. "Using the pieces to plan manoeuvres… I did wonder. You never were fond of playing against Adar." He smiles distantly, and the candlelight pulls at sun-chapped lips, flashes from pearly teeth. "When do we move out?"

"We don't," says Aragorn, positioning the white queen on the map where scrolling font reads _Minas Tirith_. He sighs, and the queen's shadow flickers and stretches over the Entwash to Edoras before snapping back into place. "Not yet, at least."

Elladan holds out a hunk of bread, cramming his own into his mouth so his cheeks bulge. When Aragorn was young, eating fast was a defence mechanism against sibling rivalry and hungry brothers, and they would race until Glorfindel sang of squirrels and Elrond sighed long-sufferingly and sent them from the table. Aragorn is no threat to Elladan's meal, now, but killing is hungry work. They may not have many meals left.

The bread is soft with lingering warmth, aromatic and _fresh_ in a way Dúnedain rations will never be. For all his talk of petty thievery, Elladan must have either scavenged or begged from the city kitchens to obtain their dinner. Aragorn picks half-heartedly at it.

Elladan swallows heavily and reaches for Aragorn's goblet. "We're not moving out?" he asks. "Why?"

"I need to hold council," says Aragorn, ripping his bread into little pieces. "Marching at the Black Gate may be our only hope, but it may also be our death. All free peoples of Arda should be present when the decision is made." Smoke clumps on his eyelashes, and his words stick in his throat. He blinks thickly. "I cannot… I cannot take responsibility if all fails."

Elladan puts down the goblet and leans back on his stool, creaking in his armour. His hair is backlit by molten torchlight, and star-fired rubies flash on his brow. His breastplate is splattered with blood. "You are King," he says, not unkindly, and his eyes are as deep and pale as fine smoke, and just as easy to get lost in. Aragorn looks down to the map.

"This is not the end, Aragorn," says Elladan, when Aragorn does not reply. "I fought too hard today for this to be the end. Halbarad fought too hard today for this to be the end."

Aragorn clenches his eyes and bares his teeth and grips the piece in his hand until the sharp contours of a white king's crown are carved into his palm. He cannot remember a time before Halbarad, yet scant hours have passed since the man's last gasping breath, and already Aragorn forgets his sacrifice. Fire floods his veins at the unfairness of death, here near the end of all things. One less person follows him, now, and one more body waits, and Aragorn is sick of this perilous balancing act, this game of life and war.

He looks at the pieces scattered over the map, and the memory of losing to Elrond in the Cloud Pavilion blurs as ghostly-faint as childhood, all numb tongues and damp eyelashes and stories with cryptic morals.

_Sometimes all we can do is take our turn._

[The board has been set, the pieces played, and the situation is thus: the Enemy has made his move in sending his host to the Pelennor, and the free peoples of Arda must now take their turn. Aragorn can strike an offensive, lead men screaming into hopeless battle (they may all die in the process), or can bid them defend, barricade themselves in for a hopeless siege (they will all die in the process). Either way, it ends poorly for them. Only one choice gives Frodo the chance to succeed.]

Elladan plucks a white knight and a white rook from the pile and places them where the map reads _Pelennor Fields_ , next to the white queen on _Minas Tirith_. "The Rohirrim," he says. "The Dúnedain."

Aragorn looks down at the map and wraps a loose thread at the edge of his tunic twice around his thumb. Three white pieces against sixteen black is not favourable odds. Elladan waits expectantly for a moment, then holds out a hand and snaps his fingers. Aragorn stares through it somewhat blankly.

"King," demands Elladan, making grabby motions, and Aragorn exhales with a shudder and relaxes his grip, handing the piece over to join the others. His open palm is littered with small indentations, little crescents of anger and fear that disappear when he rubs a hand over his face. Halbarad is dead, and he is King, and he has been raised by the greatest strategist of the Age. He knows what he must do.

_Sometimes all we can do is take our turn._

"This is not the end," says Elladan, and the night air curls with smoke, shadows, and quiet resolve. Aragorn nods, runs a hand through his hair, and braces his hands on the table to stand. His spine pops in three places as he stretches.

"I will call a council," he says, feeling far older than ninety. "Fetch Elrohir, please?"

Elladan clasps his shoulder briefly, and the weight of his hand is warm and familiar. He leaves the tent with a rustle of canvas.

Elessar takes one last look at the map and its white king. "Our move," he says to the empty night.

* * *

The honey cakes between them are still warm, and Aragorn watches fondly as Eldarion crams one into his mouth whole.

"Your move," he says, steepling his fingers and leaning back into his chair. Eldarion swallows with effort and huffs, poking forward a pawn with one hand whilst licking honey off the other. It is a half-hearted manoeuvre, at best; the summer breeze is spiced and colourful, spiralling with distant laughter, the cries of hawkers, and the scent of fresh-cooked meat. Aragorn knows his son well enough to guess he would far prefer to be exploring the lower market than losing a game of strategy to his father. Aragorn has some sympathy; they have been playing for several hours now, and the smell of street food wafting from below is mouth-watering.

Still, it is his turn, so Aragorn dutifully captures Eldarion's queen and lines her up neatly on his side of the board. Eldarion huffs again and drops his chin into his palm with enough vigour to displace a lock of hair between his eyes. It flutters over his forehead with each exhale. "You always win," he moans.

Aragorn deigns this comment unworthy of verbal acknowledgement, but does raise an eyebrow at the sulky tone. "Your move," he says, and Eldarion does, in fairness, go back to considering the board for a minute or so, the little space between his brows creased in concentration. "If you beat me, you may choose a victory prize," Aragorn prompts, because he isn't completely heartless, and he only has two days left with his son before Eldarion claims his heritage and leaves to join the Dúnedain in the North. A year will be the longest they have ever spent apart.

Eldarion studies the board for another minute, then looks up at him through dark eyelashes. Rays of afternoon sun light up the Evenstar on his chest and pool in eyes the colour of fine mist.

"I am going to lose," he says. "Do I have to take my turn?"

Aragorn smiles. "Sometimes," he says, "that is all we can do."

(When Eldarion surrenders, Aragorn lets him choose his prize, and they spend the rest of the day with sticky fingers and spicy tongues, exploring the lower levels of the midsummer market. The moments before change, Aragorn realises, needn't necessarily be feared; sometimes they taste of strawberry ice, and echo with his son's bright laughter.)

**Author's Note:**

> Zugzwang (German; English trans. compulsion to move; Quenya trans. levë maustallo) is a chess term "wherein one player is put at a disadvantage because of their obligation to make a move; in other words, the fact that the player is compelled to move means that their position will become significantly weaker."
> 
> Silm lore: Elrond and his twin brother Elros were kidnapped and raised by Maedhros and Maglor Fëanorian during the First Age. At the end of the First Age, the Valar gave the twins the choice of mortality; although Elrond declined, Elros accepted and became the first King of Númenor (Aragorn is his descendent).


End file.
